


Restoration (English translation)

by Ver_Sacrum



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ver_Sacrum/pseuds/Ver_Sacrum
Summary: The Great War between Heaven and Hell has not ended yet. The silence from bothsides is frightening. Not even the prophecies of the whole world will be able toprevent the angel from what is coming upon him. The hour of truth has come. Howineffable are the Divine Plans?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

This story is an English translation of the original: "Restoration".  
Thanks to good-omens-references.tumblr.com. Without his hard work, these pages could not be in your hands.

Prologue

On the way back a bewildering silence was present. The bus was empty, except for them and the driver; the sudden and miraculous change of route left stranded all the passengers that were waiting for it on their usual bus stop. On the other hand, there was no one who found it useful to go on this new particular route.

Until now we said that the silence around them was bewildering. Silences can fit in a variety of depictions. There are some of surprise, like when we are given something that we wanted so much and thought impossible to get; there are some of emotion, like when we are over thirty and we listen to a song from back in the day in the middle of the noisy people in a bar; there are some of fury, like when we analyze what is more convenient: whether to tell the other person their truths or to throw something at them. There are those who fear rejection and mockery, and there are also those who are disconcerted, as in that moment: when the feeling that prevails in the atmosphere is a huge question mark.

Well; yes; it seemed like they had saved the world, they could be satisfied. But... did they save it, or did they just escaped by a feather from a good kick in the ass? They were going to get a lot more than that if the war was on, that was for sure. As they would later discover, they were playing with fire.

The uncertainty had sealed their mouths. To both of them. Something told them that they had achieved an honorable goal, and something else, something paranoid, questioned them all the time if they were sure they understood what had happened. That is to say, really? Was that going to be the whole Heavenly and Demonic display? Was really not going to be anything else? And why was not the Almighty manifesting herself as her rival did? And why had they been allowed to go on and get so far? Had Crowley been right in his suspicions, and were the events that occurred within the Ineffable Plans? And if that was the case, what were their sides waiting from them what were they supposed to do? They no longer had a side other than the weak humanity and no home other than the inhospitable Earth. Would they become human? Would they lose their wings? Or even worse would they lose their immortality? And what about their miracles? Would they still be able to do them? Would they grow old from now on? What if they, unfortunately, died by the hands of some criminal on the loose, no one would give them a new body, would they? Would they go through the world like ghosts, or would they fall so low as to go around possessing people against their will? The idea of being a wandering soul or a cheap ghost that haunts the parking lot of a mall, like in those Youtube videos, was not funny at all for Aziraphale. Lord have mercy, that would be awful!

All these questions and many others, which we will not mention in order to save the reader from boredom, were crowded into the minds of the two friends. These doubts, distressing and confusing, are what determine whether silence can be cataloged as bewildering or not. Now they know. We have all had at least one. Not an equal one in the strict sense of the word... unless some of you are Celestial Entities and have not communicated it to us.

It was cold and the windows of the bus, huge and rigid, began to fog up due to the unbalanced temperature at that time of the night. Aziraphale contemplated them from time to time with a deep sense of nostalgia, like someone who contemplates the world looking for the hustle of the life that was once his. What would become of his beloved bookshop? Even reduced to debris, it still belonged to him; even in ashes, it weighed heavily within his heart. He would go see it once the morning had come, yes, he would, he had decided. Perhaps… well, now that he did not have the income from Heaven, he should manage on his own. It would not be a problem for the time being. He had made provision like all impeccable accountants and his goods were very safe in the bank. It is useless to look for justification for this but however far fetched the idea might have sounded some centuries ago, that the angel had savings would now be to his advantage, by divine blessing or mere chance. From that point on, Aziraphale should administer as humans did. He could not rely on the fact that he could do miracles. He was not sure that the miracle would last, or be taken away from him as a punishment. He could not rely on anything. Now everything was a risk.

Crowley had found that steaming through his nose to fog up, even more, the glass next to him was cheap but effective entertainment. He had a strong desire to drown his anxieties, so the first thing he would do when he got home would be to open at least five bottles of his favorite alcohol. He longed to send the worries to hell... but the strategy was so recurrent that he needed a new destination for the garbage. Complicated business.

What if he stretched out his forked tongue to leave drawings on the foggy glass? Worst of all, his partner seemed much more desolated. He did not need to look at him, he could feel the meltdown inside Aziraphale. And he was not quite sure how sad the angels could be without losing their heads... It is not that Aziraphale had his head on straight, it is just that everyone knows that in Heaven, angels are made with nothing but happiness, right? Love, peace, and singing. Singing, singing, and singing like Disney princesses. Or at least that is what humans say. No one would ever think of a sad angel or an angel wanting to cry. So, how should he act?

Crowley had secretly cared for Aziraphale for 6,000 years, but he had never seen him so heartbroken. Sentimental was not his thing; no, sir. That was for the lazy, round-bottomed, white angels with molasses on their tongues, not for him. For him, spooky, as he had said.

He scanned Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. Or that thing that snakes have out of the corner of their eye. The poor angel had dropped his face and his gaze was drifting aimlessly. His blue eyes, once so bright, were a grey mirror of his surroundings. Crowley became nervous. It was alarming. Whether he liked it or not, it was alarming. That angel never left his upright, optimistic, smiling attitude, no matter the circumstances. He used to face adversities with all he got, always thinking of a way out. There was always a loophole, a shortcut, an ace under the sleeve. He knew how to soothe the nerves of others by knitting hope into the fine threads of ingenious ideas and futures that could change. That pose that characterized him was with him against all odds, but now, suddenly, it was not. The demon began to face what he feared most: the unknown.

Would they have become more human? Would they have become weaker? He did not feel any different...

That is it, it is over. He would stick his tongue to the glass.

Fallen angels really know what it is like to be sad. They do know about mourning. However, with millennia and practice, they can develop strategies to cope with pain: Crowley's was indolence. Everything was more or less the same to him. Staying away from events, putting energy into drinking or sleeping for a quarter of a century, made his business and the ones of others less painful. It was a double-edged sword: just as he suffered less from what he had endured, he also enjoyed his successes less. After a while, he became almost like a plant, always in a vegetative state; perhaps that is why he was so fond of them.

But there were other strategies used by those condemned to eternal Hell. Others, crueler and well managed, were those designed for the enjoyment of human pain, very popular since the beginning of time. Crowley preferred to refrain from these misdeeds. His policy was that men alone were creative enough to invent methods of torture, humiliation, massacre, and violation of the rights of the living. They did not need a hand with that.

Aziraphale sighed. There was some strange event developing inside his body; something was pressing against his chest and suddenly his belly was squeezing with fear. Horrible sensation if you are an older angel and have never been in a state of absolute anxiety. What was that, what was he feeling? He didn't remember losing his breath just because of discouraging thoughts, was he autosuggesting? Of course, obviously. But he didn't know the angels were capable of that.

He was afraid. Very afraid. Suddenly he felt a very, very small being, lost in a vast indifferent universe. He bit his lips. He needed to... he spied on Crowley. That demon lay beside him, apparently very lost in his thoughts, with his chin resting in one hand and the other on the crease of his trousers, on his knee. With the typical expression of _I do not care about anything, give me some alcohol_ ; leaning against the wall of the bus as if trying to hold it up so that it would not fall apart. Crowley seemed to go through life holding backs and walls or, seen from another angle, scattered on any surface. Those who saw him could not tell if it was the park's sidewalk or Crowley that was about to fall apart. But it was okay. That's how he had known him. Being tired of existing was part of his personality... even if other arguments were hidden behind it. Issues that deeply hurt Aziraphale, knowing he was powerless to solve them. But they would talk about it... at some point.

If he could only have that kind of irreverence. To be like Crowley and relax and say "let the world fall apart, I don't care" at least once a week. But no. He had to be an obsessive disciplined. His stomach growled ferociously. He was going to bend over from the pain; he didn't know that fear caused such pain.

The bus went over a badly placed cobblestone. It jumped up and down, causing the demon to bite its tongue. Luck is a bitch. It was the exact moment when he was going to leave his lick on the fogged glass to see how disgusting it tasted. He tried a second time. He was not concerned at all that the driver would randomly glance at him and be discovered with a snake tongue, really. He had become too accustomed to solving all his problems by fiddling with the minds of witnesses. He let hot air escape through his nose to make sure he got back a good moisture board. He focused on carrying out the experiment; he enlisted his forked tongue and could not help but hissing as he did so. But something stopped him and made him choke on the spit he had collected. Aziraphale, by some miracle (which had not come out of him), was committing the greatest audacity of his whole life so far: he was timidly covering his hand with his trembling fingers. Crowley felt his tongue tided and he was about to start coughing. He couldn't believe it.

The angel proceeded cautiously until he finally caught the demon's hand in his own.

Still trembling, he reached for refuge in it, sinking his fingers into the other's palm, as if he was begging him to hold him, he did not want to feel alone. Crowley began to tremble. What... what was happening? His blood turned into a rush of fierce passion, and his heart, always so down, suddenly leaped to unrestrained speed. He could hear his chest beating. Like an unfairly locked up maniac crying out for freedom.

Aziraphale gave him a distressed smile. A little out of love, a little out of gratitude.

After all, he was going to kindly give him a roof over his head for the night. But his expression was stained with that sadness of one who does not understand what is happening and needs a compass.

Crowley stared at him, still as a rock, with those big yellow eyes and a nervous smile, running away to one half of his face. He had blushed, but Aziraphale was so down that he did not notice. The freak stared at him as only snakes can: with that unmistakable expression that not everything fits in their brains.

And no, it did not fit. You must have seen it! Six millennia by his side and he never would have bet a penny that something like that would happen. A real miracle, no doubt. His teeth were chattering.

He opened his hand to receive the angel's smooth and fluffy hand. He took it slowly, across the width of his palm... and even went a little further and carefully opened his fingers to interlock with Aziraphale's. He moved with the caution of someone who thinks is stepping on a minefield, unable to believe yet such proximity between them.

As if something very bad were suddenly to happen, or he was so clumsy that it cost him the surprise for which he would be willing to give his immortal life. The angel did not seem uncomfortable with that.

A shiver ran through Aziraphale's body. Never in 6,000 years, he had not made such an attempt. They got on better than with their own sides, oddly enough; they were even able to argue heatedly and later understand each other. But the thought of crossing certain natural barriers between them had never been a subject of contemplation. The differences were many, and they weighed on Aziraphale's conscience. They confused and disturbed him, thinking more often about the inexplicability of his choices and whether they would not end up sinking him to the ground. He preferred not to speculate... and if he did, he preferred to do so in secret if he let any fantasy slip away. For Crowley, it was not the case. I mean, it is not that he did not think about it, it is just that he used to do it from the despair of his living condition. Anything was better than hell —everyone knows that— but being with Aziraphale was... was really an ineffable delight. A place where to let off steam without fear of being reprimanded, without fear of punishment or reprisals. Without fears lurking behind his back much more than he knew to do. No rotten stench, nor claws to tear off his flesh just for the pleasure of it growing back, or fights to gouge out each other’s eyes, and thirsty freaks for other's pain. Hell was too creative for such things.

Crowley's greatest pleasure, to honest once in a lifetime, was to sit and listen to him talk. Aziraphale's clarity of mind managed to calm the storms in which the thoughts of the fallen angel were wrecked. Even if it was only for a moment, it did not matter.

Even if it was only minutes... these were eternal minutes where the universe stopped, and his burdened soul could breathe. That atmosphere could only exist around Aziraphale; getting close to him was irresistible and inevitable. That's why he had been the one who got close first and not the other way around. That's why he had gone on his quest to the Wall of Eden. Instead of fleeing from him, or attacking him, he had succumbed to the unspeakable desire to talk to him. Do you know the expression “never listen to the snake”? Well, Crowley should have learned it for the angels. Or at least one. That one; blond, short, pale, smooth skin and pure blue eyes.

They say all angels are the same. Crowley knew better than that. There was something in the way he behaved, something in his speech, an intelligence suffocated behind the bars of dogma; a prodigious mind that despite the restraints, he still suspected. Aziraphale thought. And he didn't agree with everything that was happening, even though he was hiding it. He asked himself questions and wanted answers; he was curious beyond the authorized limits. He longed to know, he longed to understand, and all this could be read with a few minutes at his side.

Something had prevented the demon with the hidden name from leaving clear after fulfilling its destructive mission. Aziraphale was not like the others and Crowley wanted to know why. His little experiment ended up subjugating him to a friendship of 6,000 years. Luck could not laugh more mockingly: "You should not have let the angel speak... for he will seduce you." That's how it went. It had been that way. To hear him whimper, with the purest innocence, he had given his sword in favor of men and... and to realize that there would not be, among myriads and myriads of worlds, another being as unequaled and valuable as that angel.

In that unheard alliance, Crowley's role was almost always that of a rude philosopher; suspicious, sharp and sometimes dishonest. He must admit that without the infinite patience of the angel such a union would never have been possible. He would never recognize it, perhaps, but in his inner self, he knew that the angel had saved his life from the beginning... almost without doing anything. Beside him, the poor bastard could curse and take pleasure in the vilest colloquies of speech, because he was sure that in spite of this, he was being listened to. He could say what he thought, without fear of reprisal.

He could concertina like a snake when some hot topic rejoiced his ghoulish side and enjoying making nervous the virtuous angel. He could weigh in the balance and judge the divine actions as if they were in a court, knowing that he would receive well thought and clever answers that would challenge his shameless use of reason. He could measure strength with the angel inch by inch in every argument; his intellect would awaken from the dull slumber of being a demon to draw upon all his learned resources to refute the arguments of the other. His spirit found a new edge of excitement that had nothing to do with the physical, but with knowledge. Long talks between drinks, so as never to get anywhere, for no one would give in. The angel won in most cases. Or he would let him win; it didn't matter. Crowley's pleasure was at that moment. He got such delight from being next to him like a vampire by calming the craving at first contact. How could he not protect him? If that haven was unique in the universe if that moment of peace and camaraderie was impossible to imagine anywhere else….

Crowley ended up becoming obsessed with him and, like a good wily snake, knew immediately that if he wanted to keep all of what he felt by his side, the last thing he had to do was scare it away. That was the real reason the demon never tried to propose anything that sounded even more far fetched than what they were already doing. No. Forget it, no. Never. He would never risk scaring his little angel like that. He preferred to wait, with the patience of a snake, approaching slowly, bringing gifts, satisfying whims, remembering details, making him fall in love. Perhaps one day, with a little good luck, close the circle around him like any self-respecting snake. And by then, the angel would have no escape.

He would relocate his most intimate ideas to the fantasy plane, momentarily, and dedicate himself to the real world, to feel the peace and companionship that such beautiful being provided. To hell with it! If he had to spend eternity dreaming of kissing him, he would do it, no matter what the price. It was fair and even insignificant... if the prize was to be able to hear the laughter of both of them.

He would relocate his most intimate ideas to the fantasy plane, momentarily, and dedicate himself to the real world, to feel the peace and companionship that such beautiful being provided. To hell with it! If he had to spend eternity dreaming of kissing him, he would do it, no matter what the price. It was fair and even insignificant... if the prize was to be able to hear the laughter of both of them.

Aziraphale's first suspicions had emerged after the exhaustive continuity of _accidental encounters_ with Crowley. He would see him around even if he lifted a stone. He was waiting for him at every corner and every age turn of the earth. In every country and in every language, at every key point in human history and on every mission he was assigned. One day he wondered if the demon was following his trail. No, it wasn't that, you naive little dove. Crowley wasn't tracking him, he was breathing on his neck. The demon had fallen hopelessly in love after exchanging a few words in the Eternal Garden. The angel had stuttered his name with a certain clumsiness. Crowley repeated it like a magic spell: " _Aziraphale_."

***

The bus went around the last corner before it reached the place where they knew they had to get off. Aziraphale was still holding on to his hand in the face of an uncertain scenario that prevented him from thinking clearly; he did not feel well at all.

Unaware of the commotion he had woken up inside his companion's body, he debated mentally against the events that had occupied the whole day, trying unsuccessfully to order them and submit them to reason. Something to calm himself down, some saving idea; a detail, an incentive, a clear conclusion that would help him to get his head out of the water, and to escape at last from anxiety and uncertainty.

Crowley had fled with his gaze to some lost spot in the middle of the night, overwhelmed by a touch that seemed harmless, but which made his skin crawl mercilessly. He breathed heavily. The city was fading into lights through the foggy glass. He could not find a place to focus his gaze, and that accentuated his perception of the angel's warm hand. He clenched his teeth. Almost curled up like a cobra in his seat, he refused to do anything that might spoil the contact. He would have sworn that, in all his centuries, he would never be able to feel ashamed. He had just discovered that he was wrong. And he was afraid; afraid of spoiling the moment if he looked the angel in the eye. He knew he was going to do something wrong, he always did something wrong, his decisions were always wrong. Either he was a complete idiot or he had the word etched on his forehead so that fate would know how to respond. He was enraged by his powerlessness, for he was aware of his limitations. Limitations to act that he had imposed on himself. He hated himself for imposing them on him and also for wanting to get rid of them. _I hate them all._ _Destiny, Luck, She who lives in Heaven and all the assholes he had for companions._ _Why me? If I only asked questions... I did not want to be like this. I should not be like_ _this. I should be able to stand by... I've never killed anyone, I... I would not lose him._ _You will see, you bastards... I would not lose him._


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life as we know it could suddenly not be the same.

The sudden turn of circumstances was received not so much with disgust as with bewilderment in Heaven. Gabriel had arrived with different orders from those established at the beginning of the world; almost a madness, if I may point out. To the mind of a celestial being, who is usually quite intelligent, there was not enough room to imagine anyone changing the divine designs. They were aware of the Archangel’s high position; all had witnessed his assignment to take the place that Lucifer once filled. Now that had been an important event. No one, in all the Universe, would have dreamed of being chosen, by the God no less, to assume the role of a Great Cherub, Protector.

By that time, Lucifer had fallen —or rather, had been helped to fall flat on his face— from Heaven. His power and beauty had convinced him that he was better than his brothers; he had begotten in himself the mystery of vanity. The mystery of conceit; of jealousy; of wickedness (if all that fits within a single human being, imagine it in such a colossal being). When his position was left empty, the Creator needed a new Right Hand, and thus the name of Gabriel was favored. The curious detail —if there is time for a little indiscretion— is that the Archangel was given authority to minister to the rest of the celestial beings, but not exceptional powers like those that Lucifer had.

This time, it seems, God wished to be more cautious. So Gabriel was honored in and out of Heaven, but he could not perform more stunning or extraordinary miracles than before he came to office. He was still an Archangel: messenger by excellence and leader of other angels... even if a part of them were twice as wide as him in terms of spiritual power.

Such was the case with Gabriel and Aziraphale. The latter had a greater amount of power, even though he never dared to use it; the former knew it, but handled it like a magnificent people person, as the ancients used to say. In reality, it was nothing more than an exquisite ability to charm and manipulate others. Thus, Gabriel had a voice of command over Principalities, Thrones, Virtues, other Archangels... but in reality, he did not cease to be a messenger, as his continuous gossip proves to Mary, wife of Joseph, Zechariah, or the Prophet Daniel, among others. Of course, no one dared point this out... for obvious reasons.

In summary, the general feeling was something like this: the son of the owner of the company where you work, about sixteen years old, is in charge of you, a university graduate with twenty years of experience in the job. And that young man, moreover, has the right to sting you or give you threats and punishments. Yeah, you got that right. A big medium for growing culture. And there was time to grow. And seeds of all kinds.

Going back to the initial point, what had not been very clear to the Celestial plebs —to call them in some way— was that Gabriel had the faculty to back out of a Plan laid down since the foundation of the World. It had not really been his whim, rather it was the events that had slipped through his fingers. Two rather rebellious spiritual elements , to be exact. Rebellious and solidly united. But he did not want to talk about it.

The front line, that of Archangels and Principalities, had obviously been the first to be stopped before diving right into battle. In Heaven, the order does not work as much as on Earth, perhaps that is why they live longer. In the human army, the hierarchies are perfectly defined, and one cannot move on top of the other, hermetically sealed in a sort of pre-established dance. In Heaven, the hierarchies were obvious (the rank included some slight change in the physical appearance of the bearer) but their organization could vary, according to the circumstances. That is why Gabriel could bring Aziraphale upside down, for example, as we have explained before. Blind obedience was the maximum first, and Gabriel had been chosen, he was special. It mattered little what celestial power Thrones, Virtues, or Principalities were endowed with; if Gabriel spoke, all they had to do was obey. He was the voice of God among the angels, though his nature was from the lowest rank of the hierarchy. “The last shall be first ,” the most devoted often quoted such feat. “ The Lord has chosen the lowest among us, to teach us humility .”

Aziraphale had his doubts, but he suppressed them fiercely, as always.

Regarding War, the lower level of the angels was not in charge of facing the enemy fully, but it increased the rows behind the Principality’s back. It was not a powerful garrison, so it was necessary for another to open the way first, to avoid unnecessary losses. Moreover, the demon infantry was usually of little mind and easy to dismantle. With a couple of sword movements, the Principalities would clear the field for the others.

The Archangels, almost all of them in Gabriel’s image, rarely got fully involved in the mess and preferred to shout orders from on high. The Principalities were better prepared to lead large groups, so they subtly delegated all the work to them. Besides, they were brilliant strategists and keen in the performance of duty. This left them at the mercy of the directives of Archangels and with the responsibility of guarding those less suited to war: the guardian angels. The poor were shaking on their ankles. They knew only of human beings, of compassion and first aid. They were not trained for Armageddon. But there is nothing else to do, this is how everything works more or less inside any church: a few work, those who think they know are in charge, and the majority do not know exactly what the hell are they doing there.

At that moment (we cannot say whether it was morning or afternoon since there is no night in Heaven) the angels who had gathered together, agitated by uncertainty and perplexity, opened up in two, like the river Jordan: Gabriel, the Messenger , returned on his steps clenching his teeth and with a look of the purest indignation. The hosts of onlookers jumped aside to let him pass. No one spoke. They were not even breathing. They held their breath as if they were underwater. Two columns of alarmed crowds, one on each side of the long glass passage, cast their anxious glances upon it as if mesmerized by some irresistible force. That force was curiosity, obviously. A self-respecting angel is not ashamed to express simple and naïve emotions, though doing so leaves them in the clearest evidence; more or less what had happened to Aziraphale when he drowned in Crowley’s face that time the devil tried to frighten him. Crowley had taken him by the lapels of his coat, in a theatrical attempt to appear more demonic ; he had pressed him against the wall in an exaggerated manner, snarling at his face with those fangs a few inches from his mouth. But despite the sudden maneuver, Aziraphale had not felt fear. He had felt other things. It could not have been more frustrating: the snake wanted to put fear into him, and the angel absorbed in the beauty of his face. Did we say that angels lost their awareness of modesty because of their innocence? Perhaps that incident was proof that exposure to the right situation, a demon could indeed blush. You could ask Crowley how his nerves were at that moment. But we will talk about that later.

We said that no one wanted to deal with Gabriel’s genius when something did not go his way. Would this put him at risk of committing the same acts as his predecessor, Lucifer? Excellent question. Let’s keep watching. His jaw was tight, heavy; his fingers were like claws hidden in his pockets; his eyelids contracted, sharpening his gaze like a blade ready to skin the first person who raised a question. No, no one would dare sneeze. He burst in like a storm front that spreads its darkness as it goes.

Beside him, clinging to his right hand almost like a shadow, Michael walked around scrutinizing the witnesses as if mentally writing down their names for who knows what punishment. He was rigid with fear, but he performed good alchemy inside his body to transmute it into rage. Something unexplainable had happened. Something atrocious. Horrifying. Unheard of. Too terrifying to move the foundations of the Kingdom of Heaven and the Underworld at the same time. An Angel and a Demon had proved themselves immune to capital punishment; they had sentenced a Principality and the Duke of Hell to die in the Illuminated Waters and the flames of the Avern, culminating in utter failure. If it became known…

He had employed, on each side, nothing less than his quintessential tool of extermination; how could he explain this to his respective bosses if they were unable to understand it for themselves? If the news were known, there would be immeasurable consequences.

The defeat would have to conceal... or avenge the shame.

No, it was not easy to digest. Sandalphon, whose big head did not report any answers to that either, gave them a range from behind to walk along with them. He had never trusted Aziraphale, much less now. This was a real catastrophe; would they be facing the rise of a new kind of supernatural entity? In the future, would it be an ally or an enemy? Well, if they now intended to welcome him to their side, they had already spoiled any hope of friendship with attempted murder. And if having him against them became dangerous, they had just hung a millstone around their necks.

“Gabriel, what is the meaning of this?” A voice had been heard, without a trace of fear, no doubt assuming the risk involved in the intrusion. “When are they finally going to tell us what is happening?”

The Messenger stopped in his tracks, a bit by surprise, a bit by irritation. Michael and Sandalphon rushed over each other so as not to take him away. In an unglamorous way, they had avoided the collision, though between them the ramming had sounded all along the corridor. They turned their faces and showed their teeth; who would dare to ask for an explanation like that? The three of them stood perfectly still to observe the bold one.

On the other side of the porch, not far away, a white Principality, brighter than the sun itself at its zenith, sunk his blue gaze into them with disapproval. He had raised his chin far above the appropriate level, revealing his total absence of fear. His unusual beard, combed in shades of blond and white, seemed to point like a sword from his chin.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, angry. He knew him very well. He was the Haniel Principality, leader of the troops of his kind and those under his protection. He was the one who counted the bodies where the angels were incarnated and reprimanded anyone who did not behave well. God did not give the guardianship of flesh bodies to any angel who was found idle. Haniel’s rigid, unyielding disposition had found favor in the eyes of the Highest and had earned him an outstanding reputation, sometimes recognized far beyond that of Gabriel. He was a military leader in the good sense of the word and also in the other: conviction, commitment, and integrity were his motto; but he often carried his causes to extremes. He was born to command, or, well, he had been since his creation. He found no difficulty in making himself respected, or in organizing the many angels. His apparent lack of fear, born of the deepest honesty, and his profound devotion to divine duties, were even more valuable than all of Gabriel’s cries. He was to be feared. Like a fundamentalist.

Gabriel mumbled through gritted teeth something unintelligible. No, he did not like Haniel at all. And he was not a stranger. He was someone very peculiar, with a keen eye on his back ever since that happened. A needle, a dagger, an eternal moment of tension; that was for the Archangel’s personal life: mute testimony to his lack of courage.

Among many other things, Haniel was not a rookie at all. He had more battle experience than the entire Archangel regiment combined. Even if human fables were told differently, the purest reality was that it was he, and not someone else, who, together with his white platoon, had fought hand-to-hand with Lucifer while Gabriel and Michael were merely giving orders, from above. They were of the same age, but the experience marked Haniel’s complexion with fire. It was beautiful, but one could guess, through the mirror of his eyes, the infinity of suffering and his inexhaustible experience.

What Gabriel projected by force of persuasion and propaganda, Haniel achieved by his own imprint. All of Heaven respected him, everyone knew (even if they did not divulge it) _that True History_ . It was an open secret, but Michael and Gabriel did not like it. They wanted the rumor to extinguish sometime, and that everyone forgot what had happened that decisive afternoon, in which the Adversary and his angels had been expelled forever.

A terrifying silence ran through the huge room, closing every throat in that spotless place of light. Gabriel held his gaze, somewhat crouching, in an almost animal-like manner, revealing the little space that anger left for patience within his entity. Haniel stood up even more, like a true soldier. No one was going to force him to retreat without a more solid argument than the foundations of Eden.

“I am waiting for explanations, Gabriel.”

Unsustainable, like the waters of a flood, the fierce rumor that something abnormal was developing on Earth and in Heaven was as constant as the light of God’s glory. It pierced their ears, though only whispered; it came and went in the mouth of every everlasting celestial Entity; it intruded upon their thoughts, becoming the most alarming worry since Adam and Eve. It was distress to everyone, no matter how many millions there were: Armageddon had not happened and the three most nervous archangels were precisely _the ones who kept quiet about everything_ .

Haniel did not have the patience for that. Much less considering the suspicion that a thorny past had given birth to. He did not trust Gabriel. Or Michael. Nor on anyone who had concocted that which was not to be spoken of .

“We have the culprits that prevented the battle from happening”, announced Gabriel, almost as a formal proclamation to the whole world. If the onlookers wanted to hear, let them take only their testimony.

“Culp...? Are you kidding me, soldier? Where are they? Bring them in and we will settle accounts with them. No treason is allowed in the Holy City!”

Gabriel held back a breath; it is true that no one knew about _that attempted murder_. Better not to dig any deeper. He still did not know how to explain it to the Almighty.

“No need for exaltation, Commander” A less impetuous intervention supported Gabriel’s position. It was Michael, approaching immediately, as he did every time he smelled mutiny. “Armageddon will take place, but God’s times are not ours.”

Some whispers of bewilderment seemed to fill the air. Miguel did his best to maintain an impeccable posture.

On that day, as strange as every day since the Failed End of the World had been, Haniel had a small new troop. They were very young Principalities who were to be instructed within the basic body of the Hierarchy, on matters concerning their duties to men and their politics. Peculiarly, new angelic beings had been created, even though the world was to end that week. Unusual, if you will, but there were so many questions at this point that Haniel did not have time to think about them all. He would worry about it later.

Three of these little Aspiring Principalities, the most clever ones, had broken ranks to stick their noses into what was going on. From behind the backs of their older brothers, Nehinah, Adnai, and Nuroc followed every word that fell from above word by word.

Haniel was listening, which did not mean that he understood, much less agreed. There was something very wrong with those Archangels... something he had never digested or endured. He tilted his face, examining them like an executioner. If there was anything wrong with the Principality, it was that it did not have a trembling pulse to deliver reprimands that were justified.

If Gabriel had an insidious temper, Haniel had a mad one. He was not going to tell that trio of groomed dolls what to do, he knew very well how hypocritical their tongues could be and he would keep an eye on them. His nose was extraordinary at separating the chaff from the wheat.

For Gabriel and his entourage, Haniel was a continuous obstacle, a pebble in their shoe. To leave him out of battle was foolish, they needed him too much. He led the fastest and most effective shock group; they could not lose the principalities. But, on the other hand, his perpetual vigilance and exasperating attachment to the rigidity of conduct made life difficult for the liberties he wished to take from time to time. It was worse than having God poking around day and night in what they were doing. It was unbearable.

Gabriel tried to go on his way; Haniel went through the body.

“Names, Gabriel. I want the names of the traitors. The Creator will be aware of this, I assume.”

The Archangel’s forehead was beaded with sweat; myriads of eyes watched him attentively. That was a power struggle, and he did not want to look like a pushover or a shyster. His insides burned with rage against that Principality. But he determined to escape the mockery through an artificial laugh.

“My friend, go back to the ranks. Do not worry. The Almighty is in control, as you said.”

“The camp must be cleared of any traitors.”

“And it will be done, it will be done. But for now, take your troops to rest. Do not sin of pride. _She holds the wise in her own wisdom_.”

He always came up with some biblical quotes: it made the speaker sound more sensible and the listener was forced to meditate for a long time before he understood what he meant. The perfect escape, in other words. But it did not always work.

Gabriel tried a subtle retreat, but the Principality stopped him like a concrete wall. He had planted himself firmly, blocking his way, and the Archangel could not help but hit his body hard. Haniel used the proximity.

“Give me their names. Who were they” he whispered threateningly. Gabriel, on the edge of a violent explosion, held his breath and gave him a beastly glance.

“One of them belongs to your people” he answered, viciously, savoring the joy of knowing the pain he would cause by what he said, “One of those without stain or blemish.”

Having said this, the Messenger made his way out escorted by Michael and Sandalphon; Haniel let his eyes fall, overwhelmed by surprise.

***

“Argh...!”

The scream had been frightening. Not only frightening, but it had gone through the room like a bullet, from side to side in the darkness. Fortunately, the neighborhood was almost empty of people by those evening hours. There was a certain distrust of American tourists, even though she had been in that nation for quite some time. In her third month in the new house, Anathema Device had finally managed to fall asleep. Going to bed at night was proving to be a calamity; either because of the anxiety of sharing her life with someone else or because the monthly payment to the bank to be able to say that she was the owner was destroying her nerves.

Newton had managed to keep his job for more than six weeks, it was encouraging; her mother did not suspect at all of the outrage she had done to the second part of Agnes’ book. Good times for a young witch. Good, except for the mocking way life was denying her a restful sleep. She had fallen asleep sitting on the carpet, stopping for a moment between the cleaning of the old attic and teatime, lying on the latticework that faced to the balcony. The irony of life had given her a nightmare at the exact moment she had lost consciousness.

The rustic wood creaked at times as if it had a life of its own; as if the walls expanded its lungs to breathe. They had bought the property at a beneficial discount because of its urgent need for recycling —and because of the rumor that it was haunted. But for a couple with goodwill, which had a witch, this was no impossible task. It was a large house, where one could nest comfortably; the high ceilings gave a feeling of freshness, and the spacious, well-ventilated rooms allowed indiscreet access to light almost all day long. They were a fifteen-minute drive from the little town where Adam still lived with his parents, although that was not the most suitable time to set a parameter; Newton’s car did not run like the rest of the world’s average car. It was a very nice place. Besides, the world had not ended, they had to project a future.

The wedding was scheduled for early summer; it was still a long way off, but she would take advantage of the time to indoctrinate her bridegroom in the field of pagan celebrations. As long as they did not go dancing naked, with goatskins on their heads, Newton had no objections. Often the young witch hunter would disregard his burdensome inheritance by helping his bride in the making of amulets or collecting healing crystals. Luckily they did not live during the dark ages or their names would have remained in the history books but for being hanged in a public square.

The cellphone, abandoned on the old sofa cushions, began to dance for attention.

Dissipating her abundant, dark hair, Anathema walked reluctantly, leaving one shoe at a time, as she had the desire to continue sleeping. She slid the open palm of her hand over the base of her neck; any massage would be welcome, she felt so tired.

“Mom?”

“Hello, honey… you have not called me in days” her mother’s voice was sweet even when she lectured her, “How is the new house?”

The girl described the state of everything around her: the floorboards arched with dampness; the paper on the walls reduced to a kind of lint and the glass in the windows showing that yellowish color worthy of years without cleaning.

“Oh, good; great.”

“Really? Oh, dear, I am dying to visit you soon! I already booked the tickets. London is fascinating.”

“But I do not live there, mom...”

“But you will take me out, right? You said Newton has a car.”

Like lightning, the name Newton had given his car made her hair stand up, creepy, on the back of his neck.

“Um... yeah, yeah, but I do not think...” she turned in on herself looking for a place that would not squeak or dust so she could sit down. “You do not have to worry, just... just think about enjoying yourself. Let me take care of it” She smiled nervously “After all, you will be my guest.”

“Of course I will, dear, of course I will. I am so happy for you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“And also very proud... Agnes would be too.” A hint of emotion dulled those words, but guessing her daughter’s discomfort, the woman immediately recovered. “And... what else did your research yield?”

“Research?” the girl seemed confused. She placed her glasses in a better position.

“Yes... you had mentioned something about Celestial Entities. You know I am fascinated by The Elementals. Did you discover any of that in the book? What did Agnes write? I cannot believe I studied it for years and never realized it.”

“Oh! Um... yeah, that...” Anathema started to sweat when she remembered where the second part of that book had gone. Her mother was not a natural witch but she was very intuitive; perhaps she should consider confessing before she was caught making a wrong move. But it would be much better in person. “Yes, well... I have not had time to rearrange my notes, mom, I spend most of the day... wait... Celestial Entities?”

“Yeah, that is what you told me. That you did not expect to see their presence in a palpable way. You almost took my breath away with that, dear. Now I need to know.”

Anathema pouted her lips, scolding herself for being so impulsive.

“Wow... I do talk a lot when I am excited...”

She remembered contacting her mother as soon as she survived her supernatural odyssey at the airbase. There was little time for reasoning and too many loose ends; she retained the memory of shouting two or three things of emotion over the telephone, among them, that she had seen, apparently, Elemental beings. Obviously the conversation, by then, had centered on the greatest phenomenon of their lives: Lucifer and his tongues of fire erupting from the middle of the airfield was a much more pressing issue. Thus, their fleeting mention of Aziraphale and Crowley seemed to be diluted within the landscape of the whole affair. But her mother possessed an excellent memory.

“Do not worry!” The woman laughed from the other side of the phone, “We will talk about everything when we meet.”

“Yes... yes.”

Now that she thought about it, she had not seen those two mysterious men since that event took place. And it had not taken her long to realize they were the same ones involved in her accident . A couple of guys like that are not so easy to ignore. Not only had the concussion and the surprise done their part to keep her from forgetting the collision in the middle of the night, but the unusual appearance of those two men had also been to blame. She could have sworn she heard the tallest man hissing like a snake. She had seen picturesque people before, but they not only dressed in incongruous ways, they were also surrounded by a different halo of energy. And two such important encounters, in such personal situations, and catastrophically key to the human race, could not be given freely to the whim of fate. It would be an irresponsible act on its part. Those men had to do, whether they wanted to or not, with the End of the World; whether they wanted to or not, their paths had crossed.

She was more than certain that an immeasurable sense of peace had filled her chest as she was taken in his arms and released from the ground. That was not normal. Suddenly everything that burned, ached, or was burning inside her body was gone. Even her glasses had cracked. Not to mention that she had taken a tremendous beating to the ground. But everything seemed to magically heal at the whisper of a beautiful voice inviting her to calm down. A gentle voice and a smile that was exactly the same, both coming from the same man who was helping her up. A man with a pristine halo over his head, too bright and pure to be able to contemplate him for any length of time. Or so she thought she remembered in the general confusion of her memory.

The Bentley’s nose did not show any damage either. Surprisingly, the bike was as good as new. Wasn’t it strange? All this, it did not seem to exhibit features ―why not say so― of a miraculous event? The girl was human but not stupid. Immediately she worked out her own suspicions, first that little skirmish in which the light-haired man seemed to have turned on a light bulb which the other, in black, turned off without remorse. Then she went home, sitting in the back seat of the Bentley which seemed not to touch the street, and suspiciously carrying her bicycle that now had gears.

They were definitely special.

“Dear...?”

Anathema woke up suddenly from her self-absorption.

“Mom! Oh... yeah, yeah, right, sorry. I am listening.”

“Is something bothering you?”

“No, no” lied the witch, with a smile “It is just... I am a little tired.”

“You cannot fool your mother” she scolded her lovingly.

“I know, I know; I do not pretend to do it” Deflecting energy to support a lie can be exhausting, especially if another idea bursts into your head. The image of these people, which she now considered supernatural, shone vividly as if an external command forced its way into her mind that she should not throw them into oblivion.

She had seen them arguing on the airfield with two other entities, standing on either side of the child to assist him, standing up to the monster that had emerged from the very bowels of the world. She had to see them again. They could be human and be like her, sorcerers instructed in the occult arts who had also been summoned to the Day of Judgment. If so, she could ask to join her brotherhood. Or, perhaps... they were something even more inexplicable. The idea alone tickled her; who does not want to discover that has spent time in the company of celestial spirits? The enthusiasm made her feel like a child and put the silliest of smiles on her face.

There was something that never... Some people say memory is the most pious lie in the brain. Maybe that is why we remember most of what can be said or a more or less respectable reality. Memories are ordered by priority and also by credibility; by their instructive function and by their usefulness. In a few words: nobody wants to be left as a social misfit or an idiot, even in the intimate act of remembering. Only with a little extra energy and determination can we admit certain things. Anathema had forgotten the incredible impression that the blue eyes of her benefactor had made on her. That was why she had never considered making the comment. Letting go of the fact that she was caught up in a glance did not seem to favor her, much less in such a puritanical and conservative environment. No, she was a natural psychic; self-reliant, responsible and balanced, not a volatile, love-struck schoolgirl. She had perfect control over her emotions and planned to keep it that way forever. Her impeccable reputation and enormous commitment to watching over the world’s destiny required a sane and courageous person. The things one feels briefly are just that: sensations, nothing more. Newton’s arrival in her life had sealed the beautiful feeling in less than a whisper.

The conversation, that afternoon, with whoever was always her greatest confidant, had turned the key on some doors to special reminiscences. Yes, she wanted to see them again. Although, on second thought... is that what a responsible witch do?

There is no doubt that she was faced with the possibility of speaking face to face with Celestial beings, an event that was extremely beneficial for her life and for all mankind. An infinite amount of knowledge gathered in one person, which she could interview herself.

The point was: would she be able to handle it?

She could never forget those blue eyes... even if she never told anyone. Her mother, on the other end of the phone, got impatient.

“What is the matter with you today? You seem distracted.”


End file.
